


To Even Fall

by perihelionic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihelionic/pseuds/perihelionic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Bitty sleeps in Jack's bed. It's not a thing, until it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Even Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RascalBot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RascalBot/gifts).



> True story: I based this fic on a dream I had about Jack and Bitty. 
> 
> For my 'Swawesome Santa giftee, RascalBot. Happy holidays! I hope you like it!
> 
> One million thanks to sunfair and Sulwen for holding my hand throughout every step of this <3
> 
> Title from the song "Sleeping With A Friend" by Neon Trees.

If it was anyone’s fault, it was Lardo’s.

Lardo had decided that no, the frogs had not truly experienced the glory of the Haus, and that yes, another kegster was necessary. Lardo also bought those handles of vodka, “just to be on the safe side.” Lardo also made Jell-O shots.

Bitty had never tried a Jell-O shot. Bitty, as it turns out, is very fond of Jell-O shots.

By the time he’s tried the strawberry, lime, grape, and strawberry again just to make sure he didn’t miss it, walking is a bit more of a challenge than usual. It’s 2:37am, and all Bitty wants is to go to bed, and he honestly does not remember _that many_ stairs between him and bed. It seems like twice as many stairs. Maybe he’s seeing double. He takes one wobbly step up, and only misses a little.

“You are a varsity athlete,” Bitty tells himself. “These stairs are not.” He sways in the direction of up. 

Five, or possibly twenty, minutes later, Bitty finds himself in the upstairs hallway. It is a maze. A labyrinth. There are doors everywhere, and he has no idea which ones lead to beds, much less _his_ bed. 

He stumbles down the hall a bit, testing different parts of the wall to see if any of them have handles. He finds one, and fist pumps when it opens. He might fist pump into his left eye socket, but only a little bit. It won’t bruise. Probably.

The room is dark; Bitty was already seeing double, and punching himself in the eye has done little to improve his vision. He thinks he can make out a bed-shaped lump in the corner, and he lurches towards it. Very dainty lurching, in his opinion.

The lump is indeed a bed, and Bitty collapses into it gratefully. The bed seems less pleased about this turn of events, if its irritated grunt is anything to go by.

Bitty frowns. “Beds don’t grunt,” he tells the bed.

“You’re in _my_ bed, Bittle,” the bed informs him in Jack’s voice.

Bitty considers this for a moment, then pulls his best puppy eyes. “Jack,” he says gravely. “Jack. I’m very drunk.” He pauses. “It took me like an hour to get up the stairs. There were more of them than usual.” In the faint light thrown by the streetlamps, he can see Jack raise one very unimpressed eyebrow. “Jaaack,” he says, and he is not at all whining. “I can’t go back out there. Did I tell you that I’m very drunk? It’s Lardo’s fault.”

Jack sighs heavily. He doesn’t say anything, but he scoots closer to the wall, and offers up a corner of the duvet. Bitty crawls under it, curls into a ball, and falls asleep within seconds. He doesn’t stir again that night, but at some point around sunrise, he registers the bed moving, and what feels like the covers being tucked around him.

He wakes up three hours later, groggy and incoherent, alone but not especially lonely. He gives more thought to the pounding in his head than the strangeness of his whereabouts. When he staggers into the kitchen, Jack wordlessly gets up and fetches him a water bottle and a handful of painkillers. Bitty accepts them with a mumbled half-thanks, and they don’t talk about it.

***  
They never talk about it, not even when it happens again, or the time after that, or when it happens so often that it becomes regular and familiar. Bitty jokes that he should know better than to trust any cup Lardo hands him; Jack complains about Lardo plying his underage wingers with booze on school nights. But they don't talk about how Bitty keeps ending up drunk and finding his way to Jack's bed, and how Jack always lets him stay.

***

Shitty generally waits to use the bathroom at night. Jack likes to get his regimen out of the way early, whereas Shitty’s regimen is entirely unregimented. Shitty doesn’t mind letting him have his space, and Jack doesn’t mind shower noises or Shitty’s electric toothbrush buzzing at all hours of the night. It’s a good system. It works.

Until one Tuesday night, when Shitty turns on the shower and the Haus’s leaky, squeaky old plumbing groans to life - and Jack bursts into the room to turn it back off.

Shitty stares at him, waiting for an explanation. “Uh. Dude?”

“Bitty’s trying to sleep. He has an exam at eight.”

“...and he can hear the shower from his room? He’s never complained. Also, why is this your problem?”

“Uh, well, he’s not...in his room?”

Shitty narrows his eyes. “Are you saying he’s in yours?”

“Um...yes.”

“Jack! Again?!”

“Wait, you _knew_ about the other times?!”

“Bro, you leave the bathroom door open. Did you know you spoon him sometimes?”

“...what. What does that mean?”

Shitty pinches the bridge of his nose. “You cuddle him, asshole. In your sleep. While he is also asleep, _in your bed_. Which you still haven’t explained.”

“I don’t…” Jack sighs and leans against the sink, folding his arms across his chest. “I have no idea, Shitty. He just started wandering in there when he’s drunk and I never have the heart to kick him out.”

Shitty snorts. “Looks to me like you don’t want to kick him out.”

Jack opens his mouth on a retort, then snaps it shut. His brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Holy shit. You _do_ want him in your bed? Jack, does he know that? Also, wait, why is he drunk if he has an exam tomorrow?”

“He’s not.”

Shitty stares at him incredulously.

“Ugh, don’t look at me like that! I was helping him study, and he was reading flashcards on my bed and he just passed out.”

Shitty’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes open slightly wider.

“ _What_.”

“Studying, in your bed. He hang out there a lot? Is his desk broken?”

“Oh my god, shut _up_.” Shitty waits for the other shoe to drop. “...okay, fine. Yes. We study together a lot. Sorry we care about academics more than the rest of you slackers.”

Shitty makes a noise of mild outrage. “Yes, I am totally slacking with my double major, definitely nailed it there.” He shakes his head and points an accusatory finger at Jack. “That was the lamest attempt to change the subject I’ve ever witnessed, Zimmermann. What the fuck is up with you two? Is this, like, a thing? Are you sleeping together? I mean, not like sharing a bed, like touching dicks?”

Jack blanches. “No! Oh my god, _no_ , no, it’s not like that at all.”

“Bro. It is exactly like that, even if your dicks aren’t touching.”

Jack moans and hides his face in his hands. “Can you please stop talking about my dick. _Bitty’s_ dick.”

“Jack.” Jack does not come out from behind his hands. “ _Jack_. Do you want to touch dicks?”

Jack moves his fingers enough to glare at Shitty with one eye. It’s no less menacing than when he glares with two. Shitty is unfazed.

“I’ll take that as a yes. You know this means you have to talk to him, right? You have to communicate your intent and shit. Like, having him in your bed without telling him how you feel is like, totally taking advantage of him. It’s hella misleading, probably some kinda harassment - “

“Oh my _god_ , Shitty, will you please shut up, I will _talk to him_. Okay? I’ll talk to him. Like. Sometime. After his exam. And if he quits the team, I’m definitely blaming you.”

Shitty grins at him. “Attaboy.”

Jack glares at him with both eyes. “Don’t patronize me.” Shitty remains unfazed, and pats Jack manfully on the shoulder on his way out of the bathroom.

***

Bitty is not having a great Wednesday, as Wednesdays go.

He’d been positive that he prepared enough for his exam, but it totally blindsided him. Essay questions are the work of the devil, in Bitty’s opinion. He tried to cheer himself up in the aftermath with a pumpkin spice latte, but there was a careless kid on a skateboard in front of the café, and Bitty is now wearing his five-dollar cup of coffee.

By the time he makes it back to the Haus at noon, he is ready to call it a day. But not before executing some very serious pouts.

He crashes through the front door and comes to a very dramatic halt in the living room, pout at the ready. Nobody looks up.

Bitty clears his throat. Shitty finally registers that someone has entered the room. He pulls out his headphones and throws a pillow at Jack, who is engrossed in what looks like three separate textbooks.

“What the - oh. Uh. Hi?”

Bitty pouts fabulously. “Hello.”

Shitty sniffs the air and eyes him suspiciously. “Bits, you bring home another one of those pumpkin candles?”

“No. I am wearing eau de PSL.”

“Jesus, is there no end to the capitalist urge to - “

“ _No_ , Shitty. Not actual perfume. I got a latte and someone made me spill it. On myself.” He sighs like he’s ten years old again and trying to emulate Scarlett O’Hara in his mother’s living room. “I only got one sip.”

Shitty’s face shifts from anarchic to sympathetic. “Did your exam go well, at least? I saw you studying, uh, pretty hard for it.” Jack shoots him a most withering look. Shitty shrugs, unaffected.

“It was _awful_. You know something, I think that professor actually hates students. It would explain a lot.”

Nobody replies. Shitty throws another pillow at Jack. Jack grumbles something along the lines of “where did you even get all these goddamn pillows, jackass.” 

“Ikea,” Bitty supplies helpfully.

Shitty sighs in a very put-upon sort of way. “Sorry your exam blew. I’ll help you out with the next one, okay?”

Bitty’s shoulders slump visibly. “That would be awesome. Thanks, Shitty. Um, Jack, not that you’re not a _good_ study buddy, I just - uh - “

“It’s fine, Bittle. Shitty can help you with classes, I’ll help you with hockey. We still on for tomorrow morning? I got us ice time.”

Shitty snorts pointedly, then fakes a very unconvincing sneeze. Shitty is a strange person, and Bitty is unconcerned.

“Yep! I will see you at six. And now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I am going back to bed because today just cannot be saved.”

As Bitty traipses up the stairs, he hears the launch of several more pillow projectiles, and decides shelling out for the extra plush model was a wise course of action. He also hears what sounds like Shitty hissing “Did you hear that? His _day_ needs _saving_ ,” but can’t figure out what that might mean before he’s conked out on top of the covers with his shoes still on.

When he comes to later, sometime after dinner if the lingering odor of Ransom’s chili is anything to go by, he’s under the comforter, and his shoes are lined up tidily at the foot of the bed. He sits up and rubs his eyes, trying to remember getting up at any point in the afternoon, but he can’t. He’s about ready to chalk it up to Haus ghosts until he notices his sticks and pads have been rearranged and stacked neatly. He smiles quietly to himself, gets up to tape a “thank you :)” note to Jack’s door, drinks two glasses of water, and goes back to sleep.

***

Jack hears a thump from Shitty’s room. This is not unusual. Shitty curses at length about the Ottoman Empire, which is slightly more unusual. This is followed by another thump and a clatter, which Jack knows from experience is the sound of an airborne textbook making contact with Shitty’s bedside lamp.

Jack gets up and pokes his head in the door to Shitty’s room. “I see Geopolitics of the Early 20th Century is going well for you.”

“Smartass.”

“I warned you not to take it! That professor is a sadist.”

“Rich words from a guy who schedules team practice for six in the goddamn morning.”

Jack snorts. “Takes one to know one?”

“Shut the fuck up. Also, help me.”

Jack contemplates helping him. Shitty has been a royal pain in the ass for two weeks straight, lobbing extremely unsubtle hints at Jack whenever Bitty is nearby. As Bitty lives across the hall, he is nearby more often than not. It’s been a struggle. Jack feels that Shitty is decidedly undeserving of help.

This is, of course, inconsequential. “What decade are you in?” He leans over Shitty’s shoulder to read the lecture slides spread across his desk. 

“Oh my god, bro, you breathe _so loud_.” 

Jack reels back, offended. “I do _not_. If you don’t want my help, I can just - “

“No, I totally want your help, just like, quit it with the mouthbreathing, creeper - “

“I’m not mouthbreathing, _god_ , fine, I’ll see myself out - “

“Jack!” Shitty grabs his arm. “What the _fuck_. I’m just fucking with you. What the hell is bugging you? It’s not Sultan Mehmet, I know that much.”

“I dunno. You?”

Shitty snorts. “No, not me. Bitty. Your...thing, with Bitty, is what’s bugging you.” Jack rolls his eyes. “I’m just telling it like it is.”

Jack groans. “Oh my god, _stop_ , not again.”

Shitty throws his hands up. “No! You still haven’t talked to him! You have to. It’s for your own fucking good. I swear, I’m getting after you because I love you.”

“If you say so.”

“Jaaaaack. C’mon. Let me just - ”

“No, Shitty, I’m not doing this with you again!” Jack storms out into the hallway - and immediately smacks into a half-naked soaking wet Bitty.

Bitty’s towel makes a break for the floor. He yelps and grabs for it, dropping what looks to Jack like seventeen different bottles of hair and skin products all over the hallway. Bitty stares at Jack expectantly.

“Oh, uh, I’ll just...grab those…”

Bitty huffs good-naturedly and walks the remaining ten feet to his room, delicately stepping over conditioners and mousses as he goes. Jack dutifully collects every last one of them and follows Bitty into his room. He sets the bottles down carefully on the desk. He can’t help arranging them neatly by size. Bitty makes a face at him. Jack shrugs apologetically. Bitty rolls his eyes. “Well, thanks for picking up after yourself.” 

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Jack does not leave the room. Bitty raises an eyebrow. “Did you also want to organize my books, or…?”

“Uh, no? I mean, if you need me to, I would, obviously, but, uh, actually, can we...can we talk?”

“About the Beyoncé thing? I kept it down today! I was barely humming in there!”

“What? Oh, no, I didn’t even hear you. Uh, it’s about...us? Actually? I guess?”

“...is that a question?”

“Um, no.” Jack swears in French. “Okay, uh. So. We’ve been, like. Spending a lot of time together?”

Bitty’s brows furrow slightly. “Like extra practice? But that was your idea?”

“No, like...outside of practice. Uh, studying? And cooking, and stuff - “

“Yes? For class?”

“Yeah, totally, for class, but also...not for class. Like, you hang out in my room a lot, and, uh, sometimes you sleep there - “

“When I’m _drunk_ \- “

“Well, last time you weren’t.”

“No, but I was exhausted from all our six AM practices!”

“Oh my god, why is everyone after me about six AM practice? We have a huge game next week! If you all hate it so much, why didn’t you say so?”

“Jack, we _do_ say so. Every morning! Holster is better at complaining than he is at odd-man rushes, which is saying something. Chowder actually fell asleep between the posts yesterday. Which I guess technically isn’t the same as saying something, but, you know. Probably could’ve taken a hint.”

“Wait, he fell asleep _on his skates_? That’s actually really impressive. His balance is insane.”

“I know, right? I keep trying to talk him into a ballet elective with me but no dice yet.” 

“Yet?”

“Well, I’m optimistic. And he’s highly impressionable.” Jack looks dubious. “I may have bribed him with cookies.”

“Oh, the snackerdoodle ones? Good bribe. I blow my daily calorie intake every time you make them, they’re so good.”

Bitty giggles. “They’re _snicker_ doodles, monsieur. And thank you for the compliment. But I’m pretty sure you’re not here to talk about my goodies.”

Down the hall, Shitty has what sounds like a small asthma attack.

“Oh, yeah, no.” Jack clears his throat. “Just, basically...we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and we’ve been, like...well.” He looks physically pained. “Cuddling.”

Bitty folds his arms across his chest, and his smirk turns to something more guarded. “Yes. And?”

“Uh...well, you just, like, started doing that stuff with me? And we never talked about it, and...I think we have to talk about it.”

“Go on.”

“Well, just, like...it’s complicated, because we’re on the same team, obviously, and we live in the same house, so, it’s like…” Jack waves a hand helplessly. “It’s...complicated.”

“So you said,” Bitty replies, distinctly unimpressed.

Jack takes a deep breath. “Let me try again. Uh, what I mean is - “

“Look, I’ll make it easy for you. I know what you’re trying to say, and I get it, and it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, and going forward when you come into my room to cast aspersions on my - on my _intentions_ , I wish you’d do it when I have clothes on. But I get it, Jack. You don’t have to say it.” 

Jack stares back at him. “What?”

Bitty sighs. “You’re just...you’re not the first teammate to tell me I got too close, okay? It’s fine. I get it. And I’ll get over it. Now, please leave.”

“Bittle, I - “

“You don’t have to apologize. But please.” His voice trembles. “Leave.”

“But you don’t - “

“ _Jack_.” Bitty’s eyes are wet. “I can’t ask you nicely again. Get out.”

Jack’s shoulders slump. “Okay.” He does as he’s asked, and shuts the door, and tries not to listen to Bitty sniffling behind it.

When he turns around, Shitty is standing in his doorway. Jack blinks at him. “You put on pants.”

“Yeah, well. I know the rules about being naked in your bed, but I thought you could use some hugs.”

Jack laughs, once, with no humor behind it. He follows Shitty into his room and only grumbles slightly about being squeezed too tightly, and if he sniffles once or twice into Shitty’s shoulder, no one has to know.

***

When Jack goes down to the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, Bitty is scrambling eggs and quizzing Chowder on his biology notes. He greets Jack politely. When he smiles, it doesn’t touch his eyes. He makes fun of Jack’s bran flakes, and insists on putting extra eggs on for him. He brings the red pepper to the table before Jack can ask for it. Jack thanks him politely. They chat and chirp and it’s almost normal, but they don’t talk about it.

***

“What the hell was that, Zimmermann?”

Jack stares at Coach Hall. “Um...what was what?”

“I know you’re not that dumb.”

Jack is not nearly so convinced.

Hall sighs. “What is going on with you and Bittle? Normally you two have, like, ESP or something on the ice. But I don’t think you guys pulled off a single pass in practice today. What gives?”

Jack shrugs and tries to look thoughtful while he fumbles for a believable lie. “Just off, I guess? I know he’s really worried about midterms, so...he’ll probably shake it off.”

Hall looks dubious. “Exams have never impacted his performance before. You think we should have him talk to someone for stress?”

“No! Uh, probably not? I’m pretty sure it’s...temporary.” He pauses. “I hope it is, anyway,” he says more quietly.

“Well, you better be right. Do I have to remind you what’s on the line tomorrow?”

“No, sir.” 

Hall eyes him skeptically, and reminds him anyway. “NHL scouts, Jack.” 

“Yeah. I know.”

Hall sighs again. “I know you know. Go get some rest. Have some extra protein tonight. And, y’know, if you see Bittle...maybe try to talk to him. See if you can get it out of his system.”

Jack can’t help a momentary grimace, but Hall doesn’t seem to notice. “Uh, I’ll try.”

“Good. Now get out of here.”

Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice. When he gets to the locker room to change, he finds that Bitty has already come and gone. He breathes a sigh of relief, followed immediately by pangs of regret. He used to look forward to every minute with Bitty. He wants to get that back. He doesn’t know how. He should talk to him.

***

There are 34 hours until the game. Jack doesn’t talk to him.

***

Ransom punches the glass. He’s furious with himself, but the goal that puts the other guys up two-nil isn’t his fault.

Jack turned over the puck, after all.

He’d been so sure Bitty was coming up the boards to his left. He was wrong. He hasn’t been able to track Bitty on the ice at all tonight.

The horn sounds the end of the first period. Jack trudges off the ice. The rest of the team is silent. Some are dejected; some are fuming. Chowder looks like he might throw something, or sit down on the floor and cry, or both. 

Hall stands in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, surveying them.

“You know,” he starts, “and I know, and I know you know, that we’re the better team.”

A murmur of disagreement makes its way around the room.

“Hey, I didn’t say we’re better right _now_. But we are the better team. They’re not outplaying us. We’re just making it too easy for them. Anyone wanna guess how many turnovers we had in that period?”

Nobody volunteers.

“That’s what I thought. Listen, you know what you have to do. Tighten up your passes. Knight, I want you on more faceoffs. Bittle, more aggressive on the forecheck. You can take any of their guys in a footrace. Beat ‘em to the punch.” Bitty nods eagerly.

Hall stops to look around the room. “We’re only down by two. And there are two periods left. Anything can happen. Go _make_ something happen.”

The response from the team is less than rousing. Shitty takes it upon himself to fistbump everyone in the room, yelling profane motivational platitudes. Jack adjusts the laces on his left skate and tries to regain his focus. When they take the ice again, he’s only marginally succeeded. Bitty won’t look directly at him.

Bitty also seems far less unsettled by the chasm between them. His determination shows in his grip, his stance, the way he stares down a winger who easily has six inches on him. A minute into the period, Holster sends the puck flying into the offensive zone, and Bitty takes off after it. He beats everyone to it, and steers it free of traffic, ready to throw it to Jack for the one-timer. They’ve executed this perfectly countless times. But Bitty hesitates.

Jack watches it play out in front of him even as he races up the ice, powering past all three guys sent to stop him. This play works because Bitty always knows where he is on the ice, can send him the puck on a no-look and make it work almost every time. But Bitty can’t find him, and he hesitates for only a fraction of a second but it’s enough. Jack muscles forward as fast as he can, but he’s powerless to stop the defender who rushes up behind Bitty and checks him hard into the boards. 

Bitty crumples.

Jack gets there half a second later. He throws all of his momentum at the defenseman, sending him to the ice. He snatches the loose puck and drives a searing wrist shot toward the goal. He doesn’t stop to see if it went in. He doesn’t hear the siren or the crowd when it does. He doesn’t wait for a whistle. He drops to his knees beside Bitty.

“Bittle.” Jack shakes his shoulder gently. 

Bitty groans quietly.

“Oh, Bits.”

Bitty startles visibly at the nickname. He looks up at Jack. His face is open, vulnerable, like Jack hasn’t seen in ages.

Before he can say anything else, the refs and team doctors are shooing him away. Jack watches helplessly as Bitty slowly sits upright, as he learns that he can’t put any weight on his left leg, as he’s half-carried off the ice.

Jack skates to the bench and yells for Murray’s attention. “What the hell is going on?”

Murray shrugs. “We don’t know yet. They’re going to evaluate him.”

“He’s not coming back in the game, is he.” It’s not a question. Murray doesn’t answer it.

Jack skates back to center ice, where Shitty is waiting to take the faceoff. He turns his back to the opposing forward and motions for Shitty to get close.

“Get. Me. The fucking. _Puck_.”

Shitty salutes. Jack skates into position behind him. When the puck drops, Shitty dutifully snags it away and sends it sailing to Jack. He charges up the ice, daring anyone to get in his way. He stops just short of the last defender, lines up, and nails a textbook slapshot past the goalie’s right shoulder.

The crowd erupts. Jack has singlehandedly tied the game in under two minutes. Shitty crashes into him in jubilation. “BRO!” he bellows. “WHAT THE FUCK, BRO. YOU SICK NASTY SON OF A BITCH.”

Jack spares only the ghost of a smile before steeling himself. He’s just getting started.

***

Toward the end of the third, the defenseman who knocked Bitty out tries valiantly to rob Jack of his sixth shot on goal. He comes at Jack, all shoulders and indignation, and shoves him into the boards. Jack doesn’t hesitate to drop his gloves. The defender has to be taken off the bench to get stitched up. When Jack is hit with a five-minute major, the crowd chants his name. They chant it again when he scores on a breakaway out of the penalty box with six seconds left in the game. Hats rain down, and the Samwell bench empties onto the ice.

***

Jack does not celebrate for long, or at all. He ditches his team, the media clamoring for a quote, even the NHL scouts. He sprints straight to the training room and unceremoniously shoves the door open. He stops abruptly when he sees Bitty, laid out on a table, ankle taped and covered in ice. Coach Murray and a physical therapist are hovering over him, poking and prodding, asking questions as they go. Bitty keeps his eyes closed, tries to hide the twinges of pain, but Jack knows Bitty’s face well enough to see them, and his heart clenches a little harder with each one. 

As he walks toward the table, the therapist makes a final note, snaps his folder shut, and reels off something about x-rays at Murray before striding off. Murray sees Jack coming and nods at him. “He’s all yours.”

Bitty opens his eyes. “Jack?”

“Hey, Bits.”

Bitty smiles, as much as he can. “You only call me that when I’m damaged.”

“Hey!” Bitty quirks an eyebrow at him. “Okay, true. Are you very damaged?”

Bitty shrugs. “Looks like just a sprain and some bruising, but we can’t be sure without some scans. Nothing I can’t handle, though.”

Jack can’t help but grin fondly. “Such a trooper.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m a real tough guy.” He tries to sit up and salute, but gives up halfway, stifling a gasp and clutching at his ribs.

“Hey, no, don’t - “ Jack reaches out to steady him, and helps him lay back down.

Bitty takes a few deep breaths. “Okay. I’m good. Thanks.”

Jack doesn’t quite let go of him. “Fuck, you’re really hurt. I’m so sorry.”

“Jack _Laurent_ , did you just swear? Also, say sorry again. That’s hilarious.”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ , not again. You made me say sorry for like half an hour last time.”

Bitty giggles, even though it clearly pains him to laugh. “Yeah, well. It never gets old!”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Me neither. But you always do.”

“Yeah. I do.” Jack can’t make himself look away from Bitty’s face. His hair is a mess, still sweaty and hanging in his eyes. Jack’s reaching up to fix it before he realizes what he’s doing. Bitty’s brow furrows, uncertain, but he doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t stop Jack from tracing a thumb over his cheekbone, down his jawline. 

Across the room, Murray clears his throat and makes noises about forms to be filled out before practically running out the door.

Bitty laughs again, then groans. “Ugh, that’s gonna suck. No jokes at the Haus for at least a week.”

“I tell jokes?”

“Fair enough. When you’re funny, it’s usually not on purpose.” Bitty scoffs. “Snackerdoodles.”

“Hey, that was pretty close! I still think that makes more sense. They’re _snacks_.”

Bitty tries to stifle a laugh and swats at Jack. “Stop! I said no more! It hurts!”

Jack puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m done! No more cookie fights, got it.”

Bitty wrinkles his nose. “Good.”

Jack drags a chair over from the next table. He sits so they’re face to face. “Seriously, Bits. I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve been looking out for you.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not your job.”

“I mean...it is. Even if it isn’t, you know...I want it to be.”

“...do I know that?”

“Well…” Jack pauses, chooses his words carefully. “If you don’t know that, it’s ‘cause I’m an idiot, basically.” 

“Oh, do go on.”

“I, um. I did not communicate my feelings, or, uh...intent. Which was, you know, pretty misleading - “

“Wow, Shitty really got to you, huh?”

Jack barks out a laugh. “It’s that obvious?”

“Jack. You _never_ say this many words about your _feelings_.”

“Yeah, well. I mean them.”

“You do, huh? So...what _is_ your intent?”

“Uh, well, I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing, so. I just...I like whatever this is. Whatever we’re doing. I like when you sneak cookies into my backpack. I even like when you yell at me for saying pecan wrong.” Bitty snorts. “I like that you made me buy throw pillows for my bed. I like that you still try to check me even though you usually fall on your ass. I like waking up with you in the morning. I just like...you.”

Bitty doesn’t say anything.

“Um, so...that’s how I feel. So, if you, like, need time to think about it, or, like, you don’t feel the same way, that’s totally fine, and I don’t want to like, take advantage, so…”

Bitty claps a hand over Jack’s mouth. “Shut _up_ , you big handsome Quebecois moron. This is probably the pain pills talking, but just shut up and kiss me already. And then carry me back to the damn locker room so we can change and go home.”

“Eric _Bittle_ , did you just swear?”

“Oh, really? That’s your move?”

“Okay, okay!” Jack grins at him. He reaches a hand up and runs it through Bitty’s hair again, smoothing it back from his face. He leans down, but pauses inches from Bitty’s face. “You’re sure?”

Bitty rolls his eyes, grabs for Jack’s jersey, and pulls him the rest of the way in. He kisses tentatively, carefully, until Jack moans quietly and tangles both his hands in Bitty’s hair, tilting his head just enough, just that extra inch between good and great. When they finally break apart for air, Jack leans his head against Bitty’s for just a moment. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his ear. The last one makes Bitty giggle, but Jack shushes him before he can hurt his ribs again.

Jack pulls away, but leaves one hand cradling Bitty’s face. He lets himself stare, lets his gaze linger on Bitty’s eyes, cheekbones, lips like he never allowed himself to before.

Bitty raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jack smiles, wide and genuine. “Home?”

Bitty grins back. “Yeah. Home.”

***

EPILOGUE

Bitty fairly skips the whole way home. He can’t help jogging the last few steps into the Haus.

He throws open the front door and pauses for dramatic effect in the living room. Chowder greets him enthusiastically. Nobody else looks away from the intense Mario Kart battle unfolding on the TV.

Bitty clears his throat pointedly. Chowder elbows Shitty insistently. Shitty sighs and pauses the game.

“Yes, Bitty?”

“Guess what!”

“No. You’re clearly bursting to tell us. What is it?”

“I have a clean bill of health! Totally cleared as of today.”

Jack perks up. “Totally?”

“Yes!” He makes a point of looking Jack in the eye. “I am _cleared for contact_.”

Jack stares at him for a split second before tossing his controller and leaping over the back of the couch. “Chowder, take over for me.”

Chowder scrambles for his controller, and holds it almost reverently.

Jack makes a beeline for Bitty, and shoves him in the direction of the stairs. Bitty yelps indignantly, but manages to wave in the direction of the couch on his way out. “Hope Chowder beats y’all on the Rainbow Road!”

Dex snorts. “He has literally never beaten _anyone_ on the Rainbow Road.”

Nursey shoves his shoulder. “Oh, like you have?” 

Shitty waves his controller at them. “Put up or shut up, kids. And who has the remote? Turn up the volume. Like. A fuckin’ lot.”

Dex turns up the volume, and nobody asks questions.


End file.
